


Paper Moon

by adjovi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 17:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjovi/pseuds/adjovi
Summary: @ohmarqueliot dropped the following prompt: Con artists Eliot and Margo falling for their target, Quentin.@themagicianspromptsAU like whoa.Title from a movie by the same name.





	Paper Moon

Eliot slipped his fingers over his tie, flattening his hand over his vest, looking over the small office. Penny was a miracle worker. He wasn’t surprised. Penny was worth, well, every penny. His fake P.I. office was all dark woods and jewel tones, the only light coming from a green banker’s lamp. Eliot mused that he had come a far ways from being the token openly queer kid in an Indiana farming town, where weekend fun consisted of avoiding bullies, 4H shows and raking manure. He sighed, turning his attention towards the blubbering man in front of him.

“Please. My wife can never see these!” The man wiped his nose on his shirt. Eliot, disgusted, nudged a box of Kleenex towards him. “Thanks, Mister, uh?”

“Call me Todd.” Eliot rapped his knuckles against the incriminating photos. “So, Mr. Hoberman. What happened here?” He picked up a photo to inspect it closely, feigning interest. Damn. Bambi did excellent work.

“Oh, God.” Josh whined, ramping up to another full blown crying fest. Eliot just felt--tired. Honey traps weren’t his favorite thing. But, word was there was some new con artist on the scene, the Chameleon, who was crowding out the market and scaring potential marks away. Penny had looked into him, (or her--not many details were available), and there seemed to be a legit threat. So, he had decided they needed to move quickly on their own mark. Josh Hoberman was a rich mama’s boy from a prominent political family in Chicago. Here on his honeymoon with his new wife, Alice Quinn. Of _those_ Quinns. “How'd you even find me?”

Eliot placed the picture down in such a way that the other man could see all of the delicious details. “Your mother. She hired me to look into Ms. Quinn’s--your wife’s--motives.”

“Alice? She comes from a good family! Why would she--”

“Turns out, Alice’s father, Daniel, has quite the gambling problem. Lost their entire family fortune, and then some.” This part was true. But, this wasn’t common knowledge yet. Even _Alice_ didn’t know. Penny really _was_ that good. Eliot lit a cigarette.

“So, my mother thinks--what? That Alice married me for my money?” Josh slunk back into his chair, defeated.

“Well, with her sights on the gubernatorial run, I think your mother wanted to make sure all of her ‘t’s’ were crossed.” He blew out a plume, filling the room with smoke.

Josh pulled out a joint. “Do you mind?”

Eliot held out a conciliatory hand. “Go right ahead.”

Josh ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, before blazing up. “Look, uh, Mister.” He stopped at the look Eliot gave him. “Todd. Look, Todd. Is there any way you can make this ‘little problem’ go away? I mean--I love Alice. This would ruin our relationship.”

“Yeah. Probably would be a deal breaker to learn your new husband can’t keep his dick in his pants _on your honeymoon_.” Eliot quirked an eyebrow at him, lazily picking up another photo, pretending to be confused, then turning it rightside up.

“Please, Todd.” He sucked on the joint as if his life depended on it. “Please, man. Whatever you want. I can pay it.”

Eliot pretended to contemplate this, like he didn’t already have a figure in mind before Josh even walked through the door. “Well. It probably wouldn’t be good for your mother’s campaign if word of this got out.”

Josh played right into his hand, throwing his head back and blowing out a huge breath. “Fine. Whatever. What will make this disappear?”

Eliot tapped a finger against his chin, then sat forward. “I’d say $50,000 should do the trick.”

Josh sagged in relief. “Done.” He pulled out a checkbook, but at the incredulous look on Eliot’s face, he shoved back into his inside pocket. “Right. No checks. I can get you the cash in about an hour. Does that work?”

“Works for me.” Eliot stood, holding out a hand. Jesus. Josh’s hands were sweaty. He surreptitiously wiped his hand on his slacks as he lead Josh towards the door.

***

“He wanted to pay you with a personal check?” Margo was laughing over the rim of her drink. They had picked their favorite little bistro that had a view of the dock, watching the throngs of tourists arriving. “Stupid bastard deserved what he had coming.”

“Yeah.” Eliot sighed. He and Margo had met years ago in Paris. He thought she was the heiress to a fashion magazine magnate; she thought he was the bastard son of an English lord. They both figured out they were trying to con the other at roughly the same time, and now they had a story for the grandkids. They had pooled their money and bought a stylishly small bungalow in Monaco, and had been helping wealthy tourists part with their money ever since. She flicked her gaze towards him, tilting her head in question. “I don’t know, Bambi. Doesn’t it just all seem a little too--easy?”

“Easy? You weren’t the one who had to do the heavy lifting on this one.” Margo huffed, sitting back in her chair. “Fifteen minutes of menace. I’m sure you didn’t even break a sweat. I had to _fuck_ the guy.”

“Fair point.” He took a sip of his drink. “I will say, at least from the photos, he did have a astonishingly large cock.”

Margo chuckled. “Yeah. That was a nice surprise.” She tapped out a cigarette, pulling one for herself before handing him the box. “So. You’re bored. What do you want to do about it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just need more of a--challenge?”

“Challenge, huh?” Margo’s eyes were scanning a group of tourists, and by the way they were glinting, he knew mischief was afoot. This was going to be fun. “Ok. Here’s the challenge: we pick some rando and whomever gets $100,000 out of him first, wins.”

“Him?” Eliot twisted around in his chair and immediately saw him. Poor kid stuck out like a sore thumb, twisting his phone around to hide the glare, probably trying to use the map function. Who the fuck wore all black to the beach? “He the mark?”

“He’s the one.” Margo smirked at him triumphantly.

He had floppy hair and looked like he would need a map function to find his way out of a cardboard box. Eliot watched him walk directly into a boardwalk sign advertising dinner cruises, almost toppling head over heels. “Uh, Bambi? You sure about this? He seems a little--”

“He seems perfect.” He glanced back at her, noticing with a sinking feeling that she was fixing an eyepatch over one eye. “So, ground rules?”

“Do we need them?” His mind was turning, already thinking to reach out to Penny to do a background check on the man. “No directly sabotaging the other? But otherwise, open season?”

She laughed a little menacingly, and he was reminded that she was slightly terrifying. She held out a hand and they shook on it. “Game on, motherfucker.”

***

“So, Penny, tell me the good news.” Margo liked the direct approach, using her excellent deduction, (and, let’s face it, _se_ duction), skills to get all the details she needed to snare her mark, feeling this was a more _organic_ way to go. Eliot preferred to be more cautious; prepping himself with as much background as he could get from start. In order to carefully craft the perfect trap.

“Well, turns out your boy, Quentin Coldwater, is a bit of a genius.” Penny held up a photo for Eliot of a man almost smiling in a graduation gown and a funny little hat. “Born in Queens in 1992, he moved with his father to New Jersey when he was was eleven after his parents’ divorce. Undergrad at Columbia, PhD in art history from Yale. Currently, an associate professor at some liberal arts college in central Pennsylvania. Girlfriend of several years, Julia Wicker. How’d a nerd bag such a hottie?” He flipped the picture around so Eliot could see the couple. To Eliot, they both seemed equally attractive. “Who the fuck is named _Quentin Coldwater_ anyways?”

“Hmm. If he has a girlfriend, then why’s he here alone?” Eliot knocked a pen against his teeth thoughtfully. “Money?”

Penny shuffled a bit more papers around. “Yeah. So. Looks like from his mother’s side.” He handed Eliot some of the papers that had been marked with a highlighter. “Apparently, she cut him and his dad off--shit. When he chose to live with his father over her. Dude. That’s cold. Kid was eleven.” Penny shrugged. Eliot knew he didn’t really give a shit. “Anyways. Recently came into a rather substantial inheritance when his maternal grandfather passed a few months ago. Grandpa left the whole wad to his favorite grandson.”

“So, new money. Well, new to him, anyways.” Eliot got up, pacing around the room, tossing a paperweight from one hand to another. “Art history professor, huh? Probably pulling a middle income salary. Would have to have some considerable help paying off those student loans.” He paused, turning back around to face Penny. “You still have that friend? The forger?”

Penny smiled slyly. “Frankie? Frankie’s the fucking best.”

Eliot walked back over towards his chair, and sliding his laptop over, he brought up a google search. “How’s he at recreating famous paintings?”

“Dude, that’s like his main gig. According to him, most museums don’t even display the real paintings anymore--they’re almost all forgeries. That’s how he made most of his coin.”

He spun the laptop to face Penny. “How about this one?” The browser displayed a picture of the _Albinea Madonna_ , a painting by Correggio. Which had been lost since 1657. Eliot had gone through a weird fixation of religious paintings during his study abroad in England. Mostly Pre-Raphaelite shit. He had been sort of obsessed by this particular painting because for some reason, even though it had been created centuries earlier, it looked like it came from the same era. Something about the tilt of the heads. The painting had disappeared without a trace after being gifted to the Holy Roman Emperor--and this was just the kind of mystery that Eliot dug in his younger years. Made him feel deep and sophisticated. Bonus, he had been able to charm a boy or three with his extensive knowledge of obscure paintings. Younger Eliot was an idiot. He shook his head, refocusing.

“Easy peasy, man.” Penny put his feet up on Eliot’s desk, and Eliot promptly shoved them back onto the floor.

“Ok. It has to be _really_ fucking good. This guy's an art history professor. He knows his shit. And, this is one of the most famous missing paintings of all time.” Eliot leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, man. I get it. But, like, this is Frankie’s bread and butter. Trust me, he can do it.” Penny held out his phone. “You want me to call him? It’s gonna cost you, though.”

Eliot had already come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to be making much of a profit off of the good professor. It was more about bragging rights at this point. “Yeah, I know. Just do your thing.” Eliot thought of something else. “Hey, Penny?” Penny looked up from his phone. “You hear anything more about the Chameleon?”

Penny set the phone on the desk. “Yeah man--didn’t you hear about the con in La Turbie? Bastard walked away with quarter of a mil from a bunch of _nuns_ , apparently.”

Eliot suddenly felt uneasy. La Turbie was the closest big town to Monaco proper. If word of this kind of thing got out, the bigger fish were going to be scared away. Or at the very least be harder to catch. “Well, keep me apprised if you hear of anything else, ok? And, let Henry know to keep an eye out.” Henry Fogg was the chief of police that he and Margo kept on retainer. Enemies close and all that.

Penny stood. “Will do, boss.” He tilted his head towards Eliot, gifting him a parting smirk. “Break a leg, I guess?”

***

Eliot strode across the massive Casino de Monte Carlo's lobby, weaving through the tables and incessantly ringing slot machines. He made his way purposefully towards the back bar near the high rollers area. He was adept at blending in a crowd, being able to observe while completely remaining a shadow. No small feat, considering the massive amounts of surveillance tracking everyone’s every move; cameras and pit men constantly scanning. But, he wanted to see what he was working with.

Margo was sitting close to Quentin, _real_ close, body language set towards full flirt, legs crossed in his direction. Quentin was ridiculously darling in real life, all foppish and nervously awkward. Margo was giving her best smile, the one where the corners of her mouth dimpled, throwing her hair over one shoulder. If he didn’t know any better, he thought she might actually _like_ the professor. But, he knew better. True romance never worked out in their line of work; and Bambi was far too much of a professional. Still. There was a certain unguardedness about her that he hadn’t seen beyond being directed at _himself_. Maybe that was part of her game, but it put him a little on edge. Being able to read Margo was the most essential part of his job when they were working together. But this was a competition. He decided to make his presence known.

“Oh, speak of the devil.” Margo purred, reaching out a welcoming hand towards Eliot. “Quentin, I’d like you to meet my half-brother, Nigel. Nigel, this is Quentin Coldwater, visiting from--where again?” Eliot felt a flare of annoyance that Margo had chosen his character for him, but Nigel was a go-to favorite for a reason. Nigel was elegant, posh and smoother than a fresh jar of Skippy.

“Pennsylvania.” Quentin swung around to greet him, and in the process, knocked his glass over with his elbow, spilling it all over the bar. “Oh, shit!” He grabbed a bunch of those tiny cocktail napkins, trying to mop up his mess. The bartender took pity on him, handing him a towel. He was able to get most of the liquid swept up, but now his hands were sticky, and he tried rubbing them on his jeans. “I uh--”

Quentin held out a hand to Eliot, who shook the end of his pinky finger, the only thing that wasn’t a sticky mess. “Charmed.”

Quentin was blushing furiously, and Eliot was completely enchanted. Which--not ideal. Quentin hopped off the bar stool. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

Eliot leaned over, holding out a hand. “So, I’m Nigel. And you are?”

Margo smirked at him, then shook his hand. “Janet Pluchinsky.”

Eliot sat back. “Ah. So, we’re rocking this one old school, huh?”

“Why mess with a classic?” She twirled on her seat coyly, sipping her drink through a stupidly small straw. “She’s got a real sad backstory though.” She toyed with her eyepatch. “Cancer.”

“Sympathy route? How--very five years ago of you. Let me guess--there’s a rare experimental treatment that just might save Janet’s life. To the tune of $100,000?” He caught the bartender’s attention. “Lagavulin, neat. And, another of whatever the gentleman was having.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “So, what’s your angle?”

“Art.” He pulled out a twenty euro note to leave for the bartender, sliding it to him.

“El, you do realize he is an _art_ professor, right?”

“Well aware, Bambi.” He held out his glass in salute.

Margo clinked her glass against his. “May the best woman win.”

Eliot gave her a sly smile before sipping his scotch. “Game on.” Quentin stumbled over from the direction of the bathroom, looking down at his hands and rubbing his palms together. Eliot watched in fascinated horror as Quentin almost barrelled directly into a cocktail waitress with a tray full of drinks. Luckily the woman was able to swerve out of the way at the last second. What an adorable klutz, Eliot thought, unbidden. Jesus.

“I’m so sorry.” He held out a hand towards Eliot. “Let’s try this again. Hi, I’m Quentin.”

Eliot took his hand in both of his own. “Nigel.” He looked directly into Quentin’s eyes, surprised by the depths he found there, knocked a little off kilter. God, what was he doing?. He cleared his throat. “So, how did you two meet?” He flicked his eyes towards Margo.

“Well.” Quentin toyed with his glass. “I basically got my ass handed to me at the tables, so I thought I’d drown my sorrows.”

“And, lucky for this pretty boy, I was just waiting to swoop in.” Margo raised her eyebrows at Eliot, a challenge. Quentin smiled softly to himself, dropping his eyes to the bar.

“So, Quentin.” He crossed his legs towards the man, leaning over into Quentin’s space. “Janet tells me that you know a thing or two about art?” Quentin swung his stool around so he could face him, and Margo shot him an annoyed glare.

Eliot could tell Quentin was fighting not to smile as he sat up straighter, clearly proud. “Actually, I’m an art history professor.”

“Well, turns out, I have a bit of an art problem.” He ran his finger along his glass seductively, looking up at Quentin from his lashes. He watched Quentin squirm, eyes flicking between himself and Margo, delightfully overwhelmed. “Maybe you could help me?”

“I uh, yeah. Sure.” Quentin drained his glass.

Eliot felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and he leaned back to fish it out. It was a message from Penny. Shit.

_Chameleon. Les Salines. Crown prince of Qatar. $500K. Need to talk._

Fuuuuck. Les Salines was way too fucking close to home. “Nigel? Everything ok?” Margo’s visible eye was wide with concern.

Eliot ran a hand over his face, blowing out a huge breath. “I’m really sorry. I have to run.” He pulled over a napkin, hastily writing his number on it and handing it Quentin. Quentin raggedly ripped the bottom half off, writing down his own number. Eliot held out a hand. “I look forward to seeing you again. I’m sure Janet will take good care of you.” He caught Margo’s eye, and leaning over to kiss her cheek, he whispered in her ear. “We need to talk later.”

She grabbed Eliot by the chin with one hand, playfully shaking it. “Later.” She leaned back languidly, eyeing Quentin from the side. Eliot felt a wave of annoyance rise up, but he quickly shoved it back down. He needed to focus. He was never going to win if he was fighting jealousy the whole time. Besides, now, they had bigger fish to fry.

***

What Penny told him was even worse than he could have imagined. No one actually knew what had gone down, just that as soon as money parted the Crown Prince’s hands, he had been whisked away by his entourage. The chatter had revealed nothing of the nature of the con, which made Eliot extremely nervous. Having no details meant they didn’t know what to look out for. Penny had heard the vague details from several different sources, meaning the word was getting out about this new threat. A threat that could potentially push he and Margo out of the con game completely. He tried to convince her maybe they should let go of this silly little contest over Quentin, and instead seriously consider packing up shop and moving on.

“You’re just scared you’re gonna lose.” Margo was twisting a long strand of hair around her finger.

“Margo. Are you listening to me?” He was pacing, but stopped to face her. “This Chameleon? Is no joke. Monaco’s not very big. This person keeps pulling off bigger and bigger cons. That means people are going to be taking a harder look at anything fishy. We are successful because we fly _under_ the radar.”

She stood, hands on hips. “Alright. Alright. We can think about a new city.” She pointed a lacquered nail in the middle of his chest. “But not until _after_ we seal the deal with Coldwater. You are _not_ cocking out on me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I just hope we don’t regret getting out when the getting was good.”

She smirked at him, victorious.

***

They had just returned from the _eye cancer specialist_ , Dr. Zauberer, who amazingly had a miracle cure for just the right price. Mayakovsky was a massive dick, but he was excellent at accents. And, he had done some of his best work to date as the German doctor.

Eliot walked over to the sofa, handing Quentin a brandy snifter. “So, that must be a relief, huh? Finding out there is a cure?” Quentin smiled at him, and somehow the way he fumbled the glass a bit made Eliot feel an annoying flash of fondness.

He clinked his glass against Quentin’s. “Yeah. It really is. Just, his price tag is a little--steep.”

“Well, I may have an idea about that.” Quentin looked around for a coaster, settling on an magazine instead. “So, you want to tell me about your art problem?”

“Oh right.” Eliot stood, placing his own glass down on the same magazine, and walked towards the back of the room where the painting was being stored. “So, my father passed away about a year ago.”

Quentin had crossed to stand next to him. “I’m really sorry about that.” He looked so sincere that Eliot actually felt bad about the easy lie.

Eliot shrugged. “Never met him, actually.” He ran his hands over the corners of the frame, ready to turn it around. “He left the majority of his estate to his known family. He had an affair with my mother, so I don’t think they even knew I existed until he died. He left me this house, and this.” He turned the painting around, closely watching Quentin’s reaction.

Quentin gasped and took a step backwards. “Holy fuck!” His eyes were completely wide. “I mean, fuck, is this real?” He went to take a step forward, his fingers outstretched, coming just shy of touching. He had a look of complete reverence on his face. Frankie really outdid himself. “Holy shit, Nigel. Do you have _any_ idea what this is?”

“Not a one. Honestly, it is a little too--” he waved his hand at the painting. “Jesus-y for my taste.”

“Nigel.” Quentin’s voice was thick with emotion. “If this is actually real, and it looks pretty fucking real--” He licked his lips slowly. “This is one of the most famous lost paintings of all time.” He began spouting off nerdy facts that Eliot already knew about the painting; his eyes shining with excitement. Eliot felt so tender towards him, which was irritating. They weren’t supposed to _like_ them.

“Look, Q. I have zero emotional attachment to this.” He spun around to face him. “Why don’t I just sell it to you.”

Quentin reared back as if slapped. “Sell it? Nigel? Jesus. This painting is _priceless_. I mean, if this can be authenticated, well, at the very least, this belongs in a museum.”

Eliot laughed. “Ok, Indiana Jones.”

“No, but really, Nigel. You need to alert the Italian government. This is-- _Christ_.” He looked at Eliot, his face softening. “Look. I know you are worried about your sister. And, I think I can help you.” He took one longing look back at the painting, before heading back to the sofa and pulling out his phone, scrolling. “I just got an email from my broker. They just closed on my grandpa’s house.”

Eliot was completely thrown. He walked over, sitting next to Quentin on the couch. “I don’t--”

“So, with the settling costs, and everything, I think I can get the money together for you guys.” Quentin was still staring at his phone, and Eliot felt an unexpected stab of guilt. _Fuck_.

He sighed wearily. “Quentin, we can’t take your money.”

“Nigel, no. You don’t understand. The only reason I am here is because of my grandpa. So, it makes sense that I give it to you guys. It had been his lifelong dream to come and play the high roller's table at Monte Carlo.”

Eliot was completely thrown. “Wait, what?”

Quentin reached for his glass, sipping. “So, yeah. I know most people have had shitty childhoods, and mine was--ok. I guess?” He stared down into his glass. “My parents split when I was little. Made me stand up in court and choose between them. I picked my dad--even then, I knew my mom was a flake. But, she always held this against me. So, whenever she had me for the weekends, she'd pawn me off to my grandpa. Which was kind of a happy accident--my grandpa was awesome.” He smiled sadly to himself.

Eliot felt like shit, playing off of a man who was experiencing real grief. His dead father routine felt a bit mean spirited at the moment. As far as Eliot knew, his actual dad was alive and well; gracing his hometown with homophobic and racist _bon mots_. He made his voice quiet. “When did he die?”

Quentin sighed, sitting back. “A couple months ago.” He drained his glass, setting it on the table. “He was a magician. Well, he was retired. But, back in the day--like kid’s birthday parties, bar mitzvahs--that kind of thing. His specialty was close up magic, sleight of hand. Card tricks, mostly. So, any weekend I got to spend with him, he would teach me. I got really fucking good, actually. I was this nerdy kid who never really fit in, but I had this one cool thing I could do. It sounds stupid, but those are some of my favorite memories. And, when I got a bit older, he taught me card counting. Poker was how I paid my way through undergrad.” Eliot began to understand they had gotten everything completely wrong. This guy wasn’t rich--far from it. But, he was kind and generous to a fault.

“I’m really very sorry for your loss.” He placed a hand on Quentin’s arm, squeezing once.

“Thanks. I’m ok. I just--well. I promised my grandpa I would come here and play some of the money he left me at the tables. Turns out, when I have to play a straight game with no cheating? I kind of suck. I’ve been going through the money he left me like water.” He fell back to the back of the couch heavily.

Eliot sighed, feeling unexpectedly and completely destroyed. He really fucking needed to talk to Margo.

***

“Bambi, it’s over.” Eliot slunk down into one of the overstuffed arm chairs, slinging one leg over the arm.

“Fuck you, El. It’s _never_ over.” Margo sat down in the matching chair, eyes dangerous.

He let his foot fall, leaning forward onto his knees. “Margo. There is no money. This isn’t some rich kid. This is a guy of average means, who just unfortunately got caught up in our stupid game.”

“But I thought--”

He cut her off. “Yeah. We were wrong. Turns out, the money dear old grandpa left was just enough to buy into the high roller tables, and his dying wish was for Quentin to play cards at Monte Carlo.”

Margo leaned forward, matching his pose. “That is the fucking stupidest--”

He scoffed. “Yeah. I know. But, people leave money to their _cats_ , so. Margo, he was going to give us the money from the sale of his beloved grandpa’s house.”

She sat back, crossing one leg over the other. “What’s wrong with that? You growing a soul on me now? In case you haven’t noticed, we steal from little old ladies.”

“Little old ladies with billions of dollars in the bank. That we show a better time than they’d had in decades.” He ran a hand tiredly over his face. “Quentin’s a nice guy.”

Margo stood, somehow managing to tower over him. “Oh, my God. You _like_ him. _Like_ him, like him.” She pointed a finger in his face. “El, we never _like_ them.”

He met her gaze evenly. “So do you.” She rolled her eyes, but he could telling she was fighting a smile. “You do.” So, that was the real reason she wasn't willing to let this go. She had fallen for him, too.

She threw her hands up. “Ok. Fine. Let’s change the bet, then. First one he chooses, wins.”

“No, Margo. Jesus.” He stood now, using his height over her. “That’s even worse. We can’t do that to him.”

She laughed a little meanly, shaking her head. “Well, if _you_ don’t want to go for it, then that’s on you. But, I plan on seducing that sexy nerd. So, consider this fair warning.”

***

Which was how Eliot found himself on the couch, drunker than he ever allowed himself to be around anyone other than Margo. Quentin was sitting next to him, leg right up against his own. He tilted his glass towards Quentin’s, the liquid swishing dangerously close towards the edge. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “So, Coldwater? What’s your story?”

“My story?” His voice was slightly slurred, and Eliot could feel Quentin’s eyes boring a hole into the side of his face.

He blinked his eyes open and turned to face him. “Yeah. Like, do you have a nice girl back home?” He raised his eyebrows. “Nice boy?”

Quentin took a fortifying sip from his glass before setting it on the table. “Had a girlfriend.” His eyes went a bit sad, and he sniffed. “We broke up right before I came here, actually.” He turned so he was facing Eliot, knee resting right against his thigh. “Well, she dumped me for her highschool sweetheart, so.”

Eliot let out a humorless laugh. “Shit, that’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t even know the best part yet. I bought a ring. Was going to propose here.” He twisted his head around on his neck. “Better I know now, and all that?”

“Fuck.” Eliot leaned for to sip his own drink.

“So, how about you?” Quentin propped his head on his hand, elbow leaning against the back of the couch.

“Me? Nah, there hasn’t been anyone for me in a long time.” He drained his glass, setting it on the table. The last person had been Mike, and that had been an unmitigated garbage fire of a relationship.

“Hey. I um--” Quentin shifted a bit, looking at Eliot directly in the eyes.

“Hey.” Eliot was completely thrown when Quentin leaned over, brushing his lips over his own. Quentin sat back, giving him a tiny self-satisfied little grin, and Eliot couldn’t resist bringing a hand onto the back of his neck, pulling him into a proper kiss. Apparently, that was all the encouragement Quentin needed, as he climbed into Eliot’s lap. And, holy fucking shit. He ran his hands down Quentin’s back, settling on his ass. He was so perfectly the right size; they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. By the hardness he felt through Quentin’s tight jeans, he felt the same. And, shit. _Shit_. He pushed Quentin back. “Wait.” Quentin’s lips were swollen, pupils wide and blown. He leaned back in for a kiss, but Eliot put his hands against Quentin’s chest. He took a deep breath. “Wait.”

Quentin panted, staring at him in disbelief, before sliding off of Eliot’s lap. Eliot used this as an excuse to stand, to place some distance between them. “I’m sorry. Am I missing something, here? I thought--”

Eliot ran a hair through his hand, tugging at the curls. “No. I’m sorry.” He spun to face Quentin. “We can’t do this.”

Quentin stood, walking over, laying his hands on his waist. “Why not? Because, I don’t think I was misreading the situation.” He slid his arms around Eliot’s back, his eyes sparkling. “And, if there’s any question about _my_ interest--”

Eliot sighed, placing his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, before pushing off, taking a few steps back. “Look, Q. You’re a really good guy. You deserve someone nice.”

Quentin shook his head. “But, you’re nice.”

Eliot closed his eyes, throwing his head back. “No. I’m not.” Quentin took a step forward, but Eliot held up a hand. “Please, Q. I can’t--”

Quentin huffed, incredulous, and his eyes flashed with anger. Eliot’s heart sank. “You know what? Fine.” He slapped his arms against his sides. “Fine. I don’t know what game you are playing here, but whatever.” He grabbed for his jacket, stumbling a little trying to get his arms into the sleeves, almost falling over. Eliot had to restrain himself from trying to help.

“Listen, Q--I need to tell you--” He wanted to warn Quentin about Margo, even though he knew she would likely chop his dick off with a butter knife and serve it to him with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

But, Quentin couldn’t get away fast enough. “I don’t want to hear it, ok?” That was the last thing he said before slamming the door behind him.

***

Eliot wasn’t shocked when the call came from Penny a few hours later.

_"Hey boss, I’ve got eyes on your boy. He’s at his hotel bar, pretty hammered. Been here for awhile. And, appears to be leaving with Margo. They definitely look like they are headed to Bonetown, if you get my meaning."_

Eliot sighed. “I get your meaning.” He hung up and poured himself a tall glass of something alcoholic.

***

Eliot had passed out on the couch, drunk. He’d assumed he’d be woken by Margo, wanting to gloat over her victory. Instead, he woke to an incessant knocking. Margo would have used her key, so what--

He opened the door to a completely wrecked Quentin, clutching a suitcase. He was barely holding himself together, and Eliot directed him towards the couch, filling a glass of brandy. Quentin slurped this down eagerly, spilling a little on himself. He tried awkwardly wipe it off his front with his sleeve. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”

Eliot carefully wrested the glass from Quentin’s fingers, setting it on the table. He frowned. “What happened?”

Quentin let out a deep breath, dropping his head back and opening his arms wide. “It’s all gone. I’m such a fucking idiot.” At this, he pulled at his hair. “She took it all.”

“Wait, wait. Slow down. Who took what now?” Eliot’s mind was spinning.

“Janet. God, I am _such_ a moron. I never should’ve--” He reached forward for the brandy, slamming the rest of it down, coughing a bit.

“What did Janet take?” Quentin wasn’t making any sense.

He looked at Eliot, clearly embarrassed. “The money.” Eliot went to speak, but Quentin spoke over top of him. “I know, I know. But, after we talked the first time, I decided to have the money wired here anyways. I was going to surprise you both.” Quentin looked like he was going to cry, and Eliot had never felt more like a giant asshole.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Eliot distracted his self-loathing by refilling both of their glasses.

“God, Nigel. After we--talked--last night, well, I blew the last of grandpa’s money at the tables. Then decided to drown my sorrows at the hotel bar. That’s when Janet came in.” He sniffed. “One thing led to another, and--” He lifted a hand for emphasis.

“Yeah. Ok.” Eliot had to work very hard to keep his emotions in check.

Quentin sighed again. “So, I woke up this morning, and she was gone. With all the money.”

Eliot felt the anger raising behind his eyes like a red wave. _How could she_? He knew Bambi was ruthless, but Jesus. He was proud of himself that he could keep his voice steady. He stood, and pulling out his phone, dialed Henry’s private line. He walked a bit away from Quentin and turned around, voice low. “Inspector? I’d like to put out an APB for one Janet Pluchinsky.”

There was silence on the end of the line before Henry spoke. “ _You sure about this?_ ”

“Absolutely. She just stole $100,000.” He knew he was breaking an unspoken vow between the two of them, but he felt so _betrayed_. All of this for the sake of winning a stupid game?

_”You’re sure. This isn’t one of your little ploys-”_

“Henry, I’m not playing, here. I’m sure.” He glanced over his shoulder at Quentin, but he didn’t really seem to be paying attention, just staring off into space, lost.

_"Fine. I hope I don’t live to regret this. But, I’ll pick her up. Supposing I can find her in the first place."_

“Thank you.” He took a few deep breaths, coming to a decision, before turning back around to face Quentin. He walked back over towards him, leaning against the back of the couch. “Q. I’m going to make this right.”

Quentin twisted around so he could get a better look at him. “Nigel, what are you talking about?”

Eliot sighed, standing up and crossing his arms across his chest. “Ok. I’m about to break literally every sacred code I ascribe to.” He ran a hand over his face tiredly, before walking over towards his desk. He entered a code into an underside panel, popping open a drawer that was actually a small vault. He snagged a valise and begin to fill it with stacks of hundred dollar bills.

Quentin had wandered over by this point. “Jesus Christ, Nigel? Where did all this money come from?”

Eliot zipped the valise closed, holding it out to Quentin. “This should do it.” When Quentin failed to take the bag, Eliot set it on the desk. He sighed, crossing his arms across his chest, nodding down at the case. “Take it.”

“Nigel, what the fuck is going on?” Quentin was eyeing him widely.

He let his arms fall to his sides with a slap, looking at Quentin steadily in the eyes. “It was all a con.”

Quentin’s face did that adorable little scrunching up thing when he was confused, and Eliot felt his heart break into a million pieces. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Me and Janet. This whole thing.” Eliot opened his arms wide. “You.” He looked down, but forced himself to look back at Quentin. “It was all a--game.”

“A _game_?” Quentin took a step back. “A fucking _game_?”

He sighed heavily. “We fucked up, ok? It was never about the money. We thought you were like ninety-nine percent of the other rich rubes we try to grift.”

Quentin looked so hurt, and all the color had drained from his face. When he spoke, his voice was tight with emotion. “What was the game, Nigel?”

“First one to get $100,000 from you, won. But when I realized you didn’t have the money, I tried to call it off, so Janet changed the rules. She wanted you to choose.”

Quentin licked his lips slowly. “Choose? _Choose_? Between you? Oh my God. You sick fucks!” He had backed away, running into the back of the couch, leaning against it reflexively. He was nodding to himself, working things out. And, when he spoke, his voice was low and full of hurt. “So, nothing was real? Like-- _all_ of it?” Eliot knew what he meant.

Eliot closed his eyes. “Some of it was real.” He lifted the bag off of the desk and walked it over. “I know it doesn’t matter now, though. You won’t believe I word I have to say.” He wordlessly handed the bag to Quentin who took it, almost as if he couldn’t figure else what to do. “Are you checked out of your hotel?”

“I--uh.” He cleared his throat, clearly thrown by the conversation shift. “Yeah.” He glanced back at the suitcase he left at the door.

“There's charter flights leaving to points throughout Europe every thirty minutes.” He glanced at his watch. “We should be able to get to the airport with enough time to spare.”

***

The ride to the airport was mostly silent. Eliot could tell Quentin was wrestling with what he wanted to say, hands twisting nervously in his lap as he stared out the window. Luckily, they hadn’t been far away to begin with, so they arrived at the airstrip shortly. A small plane headed for Paris was parked on the runway. Some of the passengers had already begun boarding.

Eliot almost put his hand out to shake Quentin’s, pulling it back instead. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry, Q. I know those are just words, but.”

Quentin looked down at the tarmac, studying his shoes, before straightening. “Well, I guess--” He sighed. “At least you told me the truth. Even though you broke my fucking heart.”

“Mine’s broken, too.” Eliot was going to elaborate, but stopped at the look on Quentin’s face.

Quentin turned to walk away, actually taking a few steps, but then turned back around. He pushed the valise back into Eliot’s arms. “I can’t accept this, Nigel. This is blood money.” At Eliot’s ready protest, he pushed on. “This belongs to some other _rube_ \--is that what you called us--that you tricked out of their money.”

“Q, please. I want you to have it.”

He gave Eliot a small, sad smile. “I know you are trying to do right here, Nigel. To do right by me.” Quentin swallowed thickly. “Look, I--” He paused a moment, considering. “You know what? Fuck it.” He reached forward, pulling a very surprised Eliot into a kiss. A rather spectacular, packed with way more passion than Eliot would have even imagined, kiss. Then, just as abruptly, Quentin pulled back, looking a little sheepish. “So, yeah. I, um--” he swung his suitcase back towards direction of the plane, hopping sideway steps away. “Goodbye, Nigel.”

“Goodbye, Quentin.” Eliot stood watching him climb the stairs, and when Quentin turned around at the top, he held up a hand in good-bye. Just as the plane begin to taxi and the front wheels left the tarmac, Fogg pulled up in a police car.

Henry let a very irate Margo out of the car, handcuffs in front of her. For some reason, she was wearing a hotel-issued robe and slippers. “Please, for all that is good and holy, Eliot. Please fucking tell me that is _not_ Coldwater’s plane taking off.” She waved her handcuffed hands in the direction of the plane.

“That is Coldwater’s plane taking off.” Eliot turned around to smugly inform her. “Sorry to fuck up your little game, Margo, but he’s gone.” He lit up a cigarette. “So, where’s the money?”

“What money?” Margo’s eyes were dangerously wild.

“The $100,000 you stole from him? Don’t play games, Margo.”

“Eliot.” Her voice did that scary quiet thing when she was truly livid. “There is no fucking money. There never was.” Eliot started to feel the first stirrings of unease prickling his brain. She swung her arms to indicate Fogg. “That’s what I told _this_ prick when he dragged me out of bed this morning. You send him after me?” Eliot could tell she was beyond pissed at him and was probably running through all of the slow and painful scenarios of how she could get revenge. “That’s when I discovered fucking _Quentin_ stole my clothes and my wallet.”

Wait _what_? Why would Margo still be in Quentin’s hotel room this morning? Hadn’t Quentin already checked out by that point? Henry’s deep voice cut through the veil of confusion in Eliot’s mind. “She's right, you know. When I found her in Mr. Coldwater’s room, there was nothing there. He’d cleaned everything out.” Eliot staggered a step backwards involuntarily, feeling like he might be sick. _No fucking way_.

She frowned, noticing the valise on his arm. “What’s in the case?” Reading the shock on his face, she took a step towards him. “The case, Eliot?”

Eliot knew without even opening the bag what he would find inside. Quentin _had_ told him he was a master at sleight of hand. He opened it anyways, finding an unmarked white envelope made of thick card stock nestled among Margo’s clothes and wallet. Dropping the bag to the tarmac with a thud, he slid the card out, eyes wide as he read. It was a short note, typed out to remain anonymous.

Eliot & Margo:  
Hope you had as much fun as I did.  
XOXO  


He had signed it with a stylized drawing of a chameleon. Eliot held the card to his chest for a moment, eyes unfocused. And then, he began to laugh. Huge, belly-aching, bent-over laughter. Fat tears streamed down his face.

“What, motherfucker?” Margo kicked his shin, her slippered foot bouncing off harmlessly. “What does it say?”

Eliot finally gained control, swiping at his cheeks. “Oh, God.” He flipped the card around so she could read it. “Margo, honey? We’ve been had.”

Margo went silent for a second, until understanding kicked in. “That little motherfucking shit guzzling rat diddling turd burgling son of a dickbiscuit!” She was screaming by the end. Definitely one of her top five rants. Maybe even top three.

Eliot held the thick card against his lips, eyes tracking Quentin’s plane as it disappeared into the clouds. “Yep.”

***

A little over a month later, he and Margo were sharing a cigarette on the upper patio, looking out over the ocean. They were still licking their wounds; neither willing to admit to the other that they were heartsick. “At least tell me he was a good lay?” He looked sideways at Margo, who was lounging on the hammock, handing her the cigarette.

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.” He twisted his head around to stare at her. “Fuck, Eliot. You got in my fucking head. How it was _wrong_.”

“Oh my God. You actually fell for him, didn’t you?” She rolled her eyes at him, and he fixed her with a knowing grin.

“Like you didn’t?” He shrugged in acknowledgement. “Although, if I ever see him again, I’m going to cut off his balls and feed them to him with a melon baller.”

“Thanks for _that_ lovely imagery, Bambi.” He took the cigarette back. “But, we’re never going to see him again.”

“No.” Her voice betrayed the disappointment they both felt. There was a ruckus coming from the dock below, and it looked like at least half a dozen drunken frat boys were hopping off of a party boat, heading directly towards them. Margo swung her legs over to sitting. “What in the actual fuck?”

They could hear voices calling from below. “Yo, Bri-guy. How much further?’

“Just up ahead.”

Eliot froze. He knew that voice. He grabbed Margo’s arm. What he had assumed was just another one of the frat boys with a popped collar and standard issued haircut was in fact-- “Margo.”

She stood immediately, and he followed her. “Holy shit, is that--?”

“These your guys?” One of the dudes asked.

Quentin pushed his sunglasses up and back, squinting at the both of them. “Yep. These are the ones I was telling you about. Guys, meet Janet and Nigel.” Margo started forward, but Eliot tightened his grip on her arm. Quentin paused a moment and quirked an eyebrow before waving an arm back towards the frat boys. “These gentlemen are all high rollers looking for a more unique casino experience.” He looked back at the group. “Janet and Nigel just happen to run Monaco’s best kept secret: an underground gambling circuit catering towards the more _exotic_ tastes.” He swung back around to look at the two of them expectantly.

Eliot took in a deep breath, hesitating for the briefest moment, before pulling out his best Nigel. “Sirs, if you would be so kind as to make your way down to the main house, you’ll find a fully stocked bar.” He pointed towards the house. “Please make yourselves at home.” The men crashed down the walk, a few shooting Margo lewd glances along the way. 

Once they were out of view, Quentin smiled at them. “So, hi.”

Margo wrenched herself out of Eliot’s grip. “Hi? That’s all you have to say is _hi_? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Quentin shrugged. “I’d say you have every right to be mad, but let’s be honest--this is _your_ jam, too.” His entire demeanor had changed. Sure, confident. He was a completely different person from the sad sap professor. Eliot was impressed, and more than a little turned on.

“Our _jam_?” Margo moved a threatening step further. “At least we _try_ to steal from rich people.” Which, Eliot found a bit of a stretch, considering. Apparently, Margo measured with a different yardstick. “You stole from a bunch of nuns!”

Quentin smiled at her. “Does it help to know they were running one of the biggest scams on the Continent? And, had already swindled several hundred thousand dollars out of unsuspecting pilgrims visiting a fake holy site?”

She chuckled incredulously. “So, what? You’re the social justice con man?”

Quentin shrugged in response. “Sure.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Look. Last year, I netted 4.8 million dollars.” He smirked at their surprised faces. “But, your $100,000 was _definitely_ the most fun.” He dropped his arms and took a step towards them. “Besides, I’ve never fallen for a mark before. Let alone two.”

Eliot felt the faintest stirring of hope in his chest, but he quickly clamped it down. “Fell for?”

Quentin gave him a lopsided grin. “Yeah. Well, have you seen the two of you? Plus, given what we do, who knew I actually had a kink for people with moral compasses?”

Margo stepped forward, jabbing him in the chest. “How do we know you aren’t trying to con us right now?”

“You don’t?” He chuckled. “Ok, so I’m good. Actually, I’m kind of the best. But I'm not made of stone.”

“I don’t believe you for one sec--” Quentin cut Margo off by sweeping a hand under her hair and pulling her close into a kiss. She immediately yielded, and holy shit. It was one of the hottest things Eliot had ever seen in his life. When Quentin finally pulled back, the look in his eyes was so completely sincere and full of want that Eliot started to believe him. So what if he was a hopeless romantic? He could tell by the dazed look on Margo’s face that she was rendered momentarily speechless. She touched her lips thoughtfully. “Well, then.”

“Yep.” Quentin indicated the house where loud voices and laughter could be heard from within. And, a crash that made Eliot wince. “So, whad’ya say?”

He could tell Margo was fighting hard not to smile as she put her game face on. She straightened her shoulders and adjusted her bikini top before leaning over the railing, shouting loudly down towards the house. “Hey _boys_ , I can show you where the best pharmaceuticals are.” Her call was met with enthusiastic whoops and she tossed a wink at Eliot as she flounced down the path.

“So--” Eliot was taken off guard as Quentin practically launched himself at him, grabbing him by the lapels and pulled him down into a needy kiss. Eliot laughed, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss, and ok, maybe he believed him. Quentin _really_ seemed to be into it.

Breathless, he finally pulled back from Eliot, leaning his head against his chest. “Ok. Ok. Let’s save that for later, yeah?” Quentin stood back and took in a deep breath, trying to pull himself together. He settled his hands on Eliot’s waist, flicking his eyes up to meet his. “You still have that forger’s number? Because that fake was one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

Eliot smiled at him, pleased. “Frankie’s the fucking best.”

Quentin crooked an elbow out towards Eliot. “How do you feel about helping me fleece some rich douchebags out of their daddy’s hard earned cash?”

Eliot nodded at him before easily slipping his arm through Quentin’s. “Game on.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I got super excited when I read this prompt because I thought how cool it would be if Q was the one conning Margo and Eliot the whole time when they thought they were conning him, ala "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels". Not sure if I was able to pull of the surprise, but I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. This was a fun one and a nice break from all of the angst I generally explore. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated! <3


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